


Cat's Cradle

by cywscross



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cat Stiles, Depression, Gen, Homeless Stiles, Homelessness, M/M, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Revenge, Werecat Claudia, Werecat Stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 15:46:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7647112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles hasn’t been human in a very long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cat's Cradle

**Author's Note:**

> My original Steter Week fic was not this. It was a merman!Stiles fic but it's nowhere near done so I started this one instead like a day before Steter Week began. And I swear _this_ one was supposed to be just a few thousand words long at most, simple, fluffy, with a side of angst. And then it spiraled out of control, but I really want to get something out at least within throwing distance of Steter Week even if the collection is going to be open for a month longer, so I'm chopping it in half and posting one chapter first. There'll be two in total (I hope) but the second part will have to wait a bit because I have a fifteen-page essay due on Friday and I've only written five pages, and then I have exams to cram for after that. Semi-good news is I already have about six thousand words written for the second chapter. BUT ANYWAY. Happy (belated) Steter Week ^_^ This is the only contribution I can make. And it ain't even that plotty but a time comes when you just have to say _screw this I have no more fucks to give_ , and that time is now. I hope you enjoy my mess.

 

He’s digging through a garbage bin towards something that smells like fish when his ears pick up the sound of approaching footsteps and a single heartbeat coming up the alleyway, muffled by the pouring rain.  His first instinct is to run, as always, but for once, he hesitates.

He’s so hungry.  The bad weather’s made it difficult to hunt, the last thing he ate was a stringy mouse with not a lot of meat on its bones, and even that was almost two days ago.

His tail twitches with indecision, and he hopes maybe the human will turn around and go away (Who walks around in a storm like this anyway?) but he’s never had a whole lot of luck, and this time’s no different.  The rhythmic thud of shoes draws closer and closer, and that makes up his mind.  He can’t eat if he’s chased off or even killed – because he knows full well some humans are into animal cruelty – so instead, he ignores the cramp of his empty stomach, leaps to the ground, and slinks into the shadows behind the garbage bin.

Once the human’s gone again, he can go back to searching for that fish.  The scent is a bit stale but he can’t smell rot yet, so hopefully, it will be good for a few mouthfuls.

The footsteps reach him and… stop, right beside the garbage bin.  His heart pounds faster now.  He doesn’t like humans.  They’re always either trying to catch him, luring him in with food, or hurt him, everything from giving him a kick because they don’t like him rummaging through their garbage to trying to run him over when he’s crossing the street because they think it’s funny.  He was taken to an animal shelter once, at the very beginning when he was stupid enough to take food from a human’s hand.  He only just managed to escape before they shoved him into a cage.  He learned his lesson after that.

His ears flatten, and he bares his fangs in warnings when the human – a man – crouches down, a rain-cover in one hand, and looking directly at him.  Belatedly, he realizes this human must have somehow seen him or even heard him from the entrance of the alley because it’s clear that the man’s objective was him all along.

The man is dressed in dark clothes.  He has somewhat curly black hair and a patchwork of scars on the right side of his face.  He doesn’t smile or coo the way people who want to pet him tend to do, but his eyes – a startling blue in all the muted dreary grey around them – seem kind, and he doesn’t smell of violence.  The way he’s angled himself and his rain-cover even blocks most of the rain.

“Hello,” The man greets him in a raspy tone of voice like he hasn’t spoken much lately or just isn’t used to speaking out loud.  “What’s a little thing like you doing out in the rain?  Last I checked, cats don’t like getting wet.”

That’s a dumb question.  What a dumb human.  He’s long since stopped caring about getting a little – or a lot – wet.  He tries to avoid puddles and rain when he can help it – he spent the last two days trying to wait out the storm before hunger drove him out anyway – but he’s lived in the wild long enough to not let water bother him when it’s necessary to brave it, even if it does mat his fur down to an uncomfortable degree.

The man says something else but he lets the words rush over him.  Now that he knows what the human is here for – pity for a stray stuck outside – he stops making an effort to listen since he more or less knows the general gist of what’s going on.  He still understands human speech, but if he doesn’t specifically focus, it’s easy to turn the words into a simple jumble of nonsense sounds.

And then of course the human reaches out with one hand, as they all do, and quick as a flash, he lashes out with claws and an audible threatening hiss.

The man is just fast enough to avoid the worse of the swipe.  Beads of blood well up on the back of his hand but he doesn’t swear or even yelp and back away.  He barely even seems to notice the injury.  Instead, he makes a surprised humming sound, staring more intently now, and then his eyes _flash_.  They flash blue, but it’s bright and electric and otherworldly, not at all like the regular blue from before.

Almost tripping over his paws, he skitters even further back until he bumps into the dank wall behind him.  He snarls this time, and he knows his own eyes flash back reflexively, gold though, not blue.  It’s probably not even the first time he’s done it over the past few minutes, but he’s never had this problem before.  Most humans just think it’s a trick of the light if they happen to see the supernatural glow.

He should’ve run.  He could’ve always come back for the fish, but he stayed instead, and now he’s trapped.

But all the man – _not so human after all_ – does is sit back on his heels, his expression thoughtful.  The scratch on his hand has already scabbed over.

“A shifter,” He murmurs.  “I’ve never met a werecat before.”  His head tilts.  His eyes are back to normal.  “Can you understand me?  Have you gone feral?”

Feral?  Of course not.  Feral means out of control, feral means rabid, feral means _beyond saving put the damn beast down_ , and he qualifies for none of those things.  He growls low in his throat.  He wishes the man would just leave already.

But since when has anything ever really gone his way?

“I have food back at my apartment,” The man tells him.  “It has to be better than whatever scraps you were looking for.”

He only scoffs in response.  He hisses again, hostility making his fur bristle despite the water clinging to his pelt.

The man sighs.  “Well, I suppose I wouldn’t come with me either.”

He pauses, then reaches into his jacket and retrieves a brown paper bag.  He takes out one of those round-shaped bread, fresh and still warm and soft-looking, before placing the bag on the ground and the bread on top of that.

“I wouldn’t normally give this to a cat but you’re not an actual cat anyway so it should be alright.”  The man nudges the bread forward but doesn’t do more than that.  After another moment’s consideration, he sighs again before standing up, but instead of leaving right away, he sets his rain-cover down, hitching the corners of it against the garbage bin so that it won’t blow away the second he lets go, and then he takes a step back.

“Goodbye, cat,” The man’s smile twists the scars on his face even as the rain begins soaking into his hair and clothes, and his overall expression conveys something more bitterly amused than true humour.  “There are hunters in town so try not to get killed.  I daresay Beacon Hills has seen more than its fair share of murders already.”

And then he turns and leaves, footsteps and heartbeat fading away as he disappears back into the storm raging over the town, and soon, the only sound that remains is the steady drumming of the unrelenting downpour.

He watches the man go before looking down at the food and makeshift shelter left for him.  This… has never happened before.  People try to feed him, and when he doesn’t take their bait, they leave.

He noses warily at the bread.  The man’s scent is there but it’s mostly overpowered by the mouth-watering smell of cheese and- and- and that sauce.  The one that goes on the flat round bread.

His tail droops briefly.  There are so many little things he can’t remember these days.

He gives himself a shake.  What does it matter?  He’s a cat.  Cats don’t need to know useless things like that.  Food is food, and besides, he can remember enough.

He wavers for a minute longer before admitting defeat and promptly falling on the bread with ravenous enthusiasm.  Even better, the rain-cover shields both him and the food, barring a few stray droplets, which means he can finally enjoy a meal in relative peace.  And the bread is even big enough that he’s mostly full by the time he’s polishing off the last crumbs.

Afterwards, he curls up as best he can on top of the paper bag.  Even such a flimsy barrier between himself and the cold ground is better than nothing, and the rain-cover above him is nice too.  Hopefully, when he wakes up again, the storm will have blown over.

His eyes slide shut.

The wind howls overhead.

 

* * *

 

It hasn’t quite stopped raining when he’s woken by the cold because the rain-cover’s been ripped away despite the man’s prior efforts, but at least it’s died down to a drizzle.  He clambers to his feet, yawning before shaking out both the aches in his body and as much of the water in his fur.

Then he sets off for home.  He debates scrounging for that fish again for all of a second but he decides against it in the end.  It doesn’t smell that good anyway, and he should be able to hunt again soon.

He knows this town probably better than anyone so it’s easy to wind his way down streets and around corners without being seen.  It helps that it’s still pretty early so there aren’t that many people or even cars out and about.

He reaches the familiar looming iron gates of his home soon enough.  They’re still locked but he has no trouble slipping between the bars.  He trots over wet grass, skirting up one gently sloping hill to a large willow tree whose branches hang low, guarding two stones at its base.  There’s a hollow in the tree, and that’s where he goes, twining around the stones before ducking into the dry interior.

He can hunt later.  For now, after a thorough wash, another nap sounds like the perfect way to spend the rest of his morning.

 

* * *

 

He kills a bird several hours later.  But before that, he goes into town again, back to the alley from before.

He hasn’t forgotten about the bread, and amongst the jumble of his past memories, he remembers very clearly that when someone gives you something, you should always give them something back.  It’s polite.  Or something.

Of course, he has no idea where the man lives, and any trail has long since been washed away by the weather.  But people in this town – he’s discovered – are huge gossips, and what kind of nosy rumourmonger wouldn’t whisper about a man with such bad scars on his face?

So all he has to do is spend a couple hours hanging around in the thick of civilization, largely overlooked as he skulks from shadow to shadow.  The local supermarket especially has a group of women who gather almost daily to chatter about the latest news in town.

Slowly, he gets enough pieces from different people to cobble a rough picture together.  He hears about the miracle coma patient that woke up just a few months ago, already back on his feet despite the horrible scars.  A recluse, they call him, but everyone agrees that the man can’t be blamed for such a thing.  He has family too, but they moved away a long time ago.

 _Six years ago_.  _After the terrible fire that took the lives of most of the family that used to live in the Preserve_.

He doesn’t move for a long time after that, sitting in a patch of shadows, staring blankly at the numerous pairs of legs strolling up and down the street.

He remembers that time but he doesn’t… he doesn’t much like thinking about it.  So he doesn’t.  He listens a little longer until someone mentions an apartment downtown – Woodland Heights – and then he leaves.

He heads for the woods, and it doesn’t take him long to snag a bird in midflight out of the air.  It’s a decently fat one, a blackbird, young, nowhere near good enough to evade his claws.  It isn’t a huge bird, and he isn’t a particularly small cat, so it isn’t too difficult to lock his jaws around his prey and head into town again.

It’s a little harder to avoid notice now that he’s carrying a bird but he manages.  He doesn’t know which apartment the man lives in but once he’s there, the scents of different people are easier to pick out, and it only takes another few minutes to sniff out where the man’s scent is thickest.

He can hear a heartbeat inside so all he does is drop off the bird on the doorstep outside.  He hesitates, then gives the door a few firm thumps before turning and hightailing out of there.

He kills another bird before heading home with his own meal for the day.  The gates are open but there are never that many people around here, sometimes none at all even in broad daylight.  It’s one of the reasons he likes the place.  Another is that the human owners of his home have grown used to his presence and – aside from indulgent smiles and the occasional greeting – they leave him to his own devices and respect his boundaries.

He settles next to the stones in front of the willow tree before tearing into his food.  This is a nice bird too, plump, if a little small.  Can’t say he likes the feathers, but those always go towards his nest.  The old ones always need changing out every once in a while anyway.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, he stirs from his sleep when voices and two heartbeats approach his tree.  He’s instantly alert.  He doesn’t like it when people invade his territory and the human owners know that because the last time a couple of teenagers snuck in and wandered onto his hill, leaving cigarette ash everywhere, he left a mess of deep gouges on them and almost took out the lead idiot’s right eye.  Ever since then, there’s a sign at the base of the hill that warns visitors to skirt around this particular piece of territory.  It isn’t as if they have any business to be here anyway; there’s only room for one, and that one isn’t anyone else but him.  Nowadays, only one of the owners or employees comes by every few weeks with the grass-eater and a garbage bag, and it’s not that time yet.

So he ducks out of his tree and peers around one of the stones, already flexing his claws in mistrustful anticipation.

“-lives here,” Someone is saying, and his ears perk up.  That’s Isaac, one of the gravediggers the owners employ.  The boy’s father used to work here too but the stench of violence on _him_ could be smelt a mile away, and after the fifth time Isaac came to work with bruises and frostbitten fingers, well, there’s a reason he’s Isaac’s favourite cat even if he doesn’t really let the boy pet him.  He basically herded Isaac to the owners and sat on him until the police was called.  It was all very troublesome but the father is in jail now, and in the winter, Isaac always makes sure to donate a few pieces of clothing to his nest.

But Isaac’s never let anyone on this hill before, and it makes him cautious.

“We named him Gabriel,” Isaac’s voice gets louder as they get nearer.  “You know, after the angel, because he’s guarded this place for years, especially this hill.  It’s his.  But he doesn’t let visitors screw around anywhere in the cemetery, especially when they try to sneak in for some stupid reason.  He’s pretty smart.  Most people just know him as the graveyard cat.”

The wind shifts, and suddenly, he knows exactly who Isaac’s brought with him.

“He should be around here somewhere,” Isaac comes into view, the shifter man from a few days back at his side.  “Gabe?  Gabriel?  I know you don’t like company but Mr. Hale said he met you a few days ago, during that storm, and he wanted to make sure you were alright.  Gabriel?”

“It’s fine, I see him,” The man – Mr. Hale, _Peter Hale, only survivor of the Hale fire, coma, fourth-degree burns_ – cuts in smoothly.  “There are no rules against being here, is there?”

“Uh, no, not really.”  Isaac shuffles in place before shrugging.  “The sign’s more for your benefit than anyone else’s.  Gabriel can be kinda… territorial.”

“I’m sure,” Hale sounds like he believes it.  “Then I can take it from here.”  A charming smile – in spite of his scars – curls at his lips but reaches no further.  His eyes remain a cold, detached blue.  “I promise I won’t upset him.”

Isaac wavers for a moment longer, glancing in the direction of the willow, his scent a mix of nervousness and pity when he looks back at Hale, and then he bobs his head and retreats back down the hill and out of sight.

Hale turns back to the willow.  To the stones in front of it.  Something complicated crosses his face, something that thaws his expression as he says softly, “Hello again, cat.  I didn’t introduce myself last time, but you probably already know anyway since you managed to find me.  My name is Peter.  Thank you for the bird.  You didn’t have to.”

Of course he had to.  Something for something.  He still remembers that.

He creeps out from behind the stone, eyeing the man suspiciously, but for once, he doesn’t launch an assault at the intruder right away, even when Hale – _Peter_ – seems to take that as permission to make himself comfortable on the ground a few feet away.

Neither of them makes a move to erase the distance between them, but when he flashes his eyes at Peter, out of curiosity mostly, Peter’s eyes flare blue back, like a silent acknowledgment of the secret they share.

“Is this where you live?”  The man asks next, though the question has to be rhetorical.  Peter looks up at the willow, at their surroundings, then at the stones.  His eyes trace over the lettering on them, and then he freezes, noticeably enough for even the most inattentive to catch.

Peter is silent for a long moment before his gaze moves to him, brow knitting, eyes calculatingly sharp.  He doesn’t say anything about it though.  He doesn’t say anything period.  The man seems perfectly content to simply sit there and enjoy the morning breeze.

He doesn’t know what to make of it, but since Peter isn’t making trouble, he eventually curls up in a patch of sunlight, keeping his eyes on the man but otherwise letting him be.

He’s almost sorry to see the shifter leave sometime after noon, but Peter says, “I’ll see you around, cat.”

He doesn’t call him Gabriel.

 

* * *

 

‘See you around’ apparently means ‘come back the next day’.  And the next.  And the next.  And the next.  Peter doesn’t always talk, but he doesn’t always stay silent either.  Like clockwork, he appears in the morning, sometimes with food or a book, usually both, then he takes a seat near the willow and spends half of the rest of the day reading.

Most days, Peter reads out loud, and it both pleases him and irritates him, because Peter treats him like he’s smart enough to understand, but sometimes, he _doesn’t_ understand.  The words come too quickly, or he can’t remember the meaning of a word, and then he misses the next several words, and he falls behind.  He tries actively not listening but that’s harder than he expects it to be because the books Peter brings are too interesting to shut out completely.

The fifth time he misses three whole sentences in a row, he reacts by kneading up strands of grass in sheer frustration, which Peter notices and somehow figures out what’s bothering him.  After that, the man reads a little slower and scents the air more frequently, the latter of which always seems to let him know when he should stop and explain something.

And in the face of all that, he can’t… he can’t quite say he doesn’t start looking forward to Peter’s daily visits.  He even learns to fit his hunting trips into the time that the man isn’t around.

He doesn’t let Peter touch him.  He doesn’t let anybody do that, not even Isaac, aside from that one time with the whole dad issue.  But Peter doesn’t try either, and he does eventually make his way to the other shifter’s side, closing the distance between them with every passing day, and soon, he ends up sitting right beside the man with his head on his paws as he listens to him read.

But then, several weeks later – maybe a month, he isn’t good with keeping track of that sort of thing these days – Peter arrives as usual, except this time, he kneels down in front of the stones and says nothing for a while.  When he finally does speak, it’s a question.

“Do you still remember your name?”  Peter looks straight at him.  “Are you Miłosław?  Miłosław Stilinski?”

This time, it’s his turn to freeze as something at the back of his mind begins to stir.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”  Peter continues quietly, and there is something tired and sad in his features.  “You’re not guarding this hill, or the tree that you’ve made your nest in.  You’re not even really guarding this cemetery.  You’re guarding these two graves.  You’re guarding your parents’ graves.”

He doesn’t move.  Doesn’t even blink.  A part of him thinks he wants to run; another bigger part keeps him rooted in place.  His gaze drifts, and he finds himself staring at the stones too.

At the words and numbers carved into them.

“Miłosław?”

_Don’t call me that!_

He snarls, a deeper and more guttural sound than he’s ever produced.  Lightning fast, he tears his claws through the hand that was in the process of reaching for him, and this time, he draws a lot more blood, ripping open flesh and staining his claws as droplets of crimson splatter across the grass.

Peter hisses and snatches his hand back, but he doesn’t look angry.

Not that he – _MiłosławMiłosławMiłosław that’s your name when did you forget?_ – notices.  He yowls, a rising, wailing caterwaul that goes on and on even as he bunches his muscles and springs from the ground, flinging himself at Peter’s face as his attention narrows with a single-minded fury.  He drives the man from the hill, made less difficult by the fact that Peter doesn’t fight him, retreating without protest, and by the time he’s fully aware again, the older shifter is gone, and he’s curled back up inside the willow, back to the world, burrowed in the comforting darkness of his nest.

He mewls a plaintive, mournful noise that tapers off without anyone hearing him.

_Miłosław._

Nobody calls him that.  Nobody’s called him that in a very long time.  Only one person ever did, and she’s long dead.

Over six years dead now.

Six years.

 

* * *

 

Isaac comes.  The cemetery owners come too.  Peter comes back.  They all talk but he stops listening, letting the words wash over him like a river current even as he chases them all away, prowling along the edges of his territory and attacking anything that puts a toe over the line.

It once frightened him, at the beginning, how easy it gradually became to… to turn off his understanding of a human language until it makes about as much sense as the burble of a creek.  But that fear’s faded with time, and he finds the ability almost convenient now.

Being an animal has always been easier.

One day, he goes out hunting and returns to find Peter in his territory once again.  He barely spares the time to utter a growl before he hurtles towards the man, only to screech when Peter catches him and – ignoring the bloody gashes that he instantly begins inflicting on the other shifter with wild swipes of his claws – grapples him into a bastardized hug.

_Let go let go let go-!_

“Miłosław,” Peter grits out, stubbornly unyielding in his grip on the struggling bundle of muscle and fur in his arms.  “Miłosław, _listen to me_.  She’s as good as dead, you hear me?  Kate Argent – I’ll see her dead!”

He goes limp.  For a moment, he even forgets he’s being held for the first time in over six years.

“She killed your mother, didn’t she?”  Peter continues more quietly, blue eyes meeting amber.  “I got my hands on the case, and the article they printed for it.  The verdict was that she was mugged while walking in the woods, but it’s a flimsy excuse at best, and the timing is too coincidental.  She died the same day my family and I burned.  She died the same _time_ we burned.  If she was coming to… to warn my family, or save them, or even stop Kate, and Kate bumped into her on her way out of town, and if she’s where you got your werecat genes from, and if she tried to attack Kate and revealed herself, accidentally or otherwise, then that’s what Kate would’ve most likely murdered her for.”

The man pauses, and then slowly lowers him into his lap.  The older shifter has rips in his clothing but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Not that it matters in the end, I suppose,” He mutters with an odd twist of his mouth that pulls at his scars.  “Dead is dead.  But your father guessed, so he went after the Argents and got himself killed in the process, and left you all alone.”  His eyes crystallize to that ethereal blue.  “Did that godforsaken family come after you too?  Is that why you’ve been living as a cat?  You were reported missing the same day your father supposedly died in a car crash.  But you escaped instead, like this.  And you’ve been here ever since.”

Half-sprawled in the man’s lap now, a low, miserable croon spills out of his throat.

He doesn’t want to remember.  He’s never liked remembering.

But he does anyway.

_Remembering how useless he was when his mom faced off against the blonde hunter.  When she made him promise to hide and not come out until she came back for him.  When all he did was huddle in some bushes while her mother was gunned down and the hunter woman laughed.  When he couldn’t save her._

_Dad hated him for it.  Hated how he came back alive but not Mom.  Dad never said as much out loud, but he could tell.  The man was almost never home, obsessing instead over Mom’s death and the Hale fire and the Argents.  And when he was home, Dad never looked at him again, not really.  They barely even spoke.  He apologized, once.  Cried and said he was sorry, over and over again.  But Dad was too far into his drink to really hear, and three days later, he knew, he just **knew** , that Dad was dead, killed too, just like his mom, because something broke in his chest, the same way something in him broke when Mom died, and everything became too much._

_That same day, someone broke into his house.  But he had already shed his human skin, and as a cat, it was so much easier to hide until wolfsbanegunoilviolence cussed under his breath, smashing things along the way before stomping back outside and driving away._

_Two weeks later, after Dad was buried beside Mom, he moved into the willow and never moved back out._

Gentle fingers scratch behind his ears.  He makes a half-hearted attempt at batting the hand away but ultimately sags instead, looking at the two graves standing side by side in front of the willow tree.

“You probably know the fire was considered an accident, and the investigation was dropped,” Peter offers, combing fingers through tangled fur.  “But I’ll see that she pays for it.”

He looks up.  The older shifter smiles, dark and broken and terrifying.  “Six years too late, but I’ll see her dead, one way or another.  I promise you.  It’s only a matter of time.”

The man’s heart is steady; there is no lie.  Mom taught him that – how to differentiate truths from lies.

He thinks he should demand details, but honestly, he doesn’t care.  The promise is absolute, and there’s an almost fevered light in Peter's eyes that has nothing to do with his shifter side and everything to do with guaranteed vengeance.  Kate Argent’s days are numbered – Peter will see to that justice, and that’s already more than he’s ever done.

He doesn’t fight when Peter gets to his feet, still carrying him in his arms.

Nor does he fight when Peter leaves the cemetery and takes them both back to his apartment.

 

* * *

 

“Miłosław?  Come on, sweetheart, you need to eat.”

He hasn’t moved from the little blanket nest on the sofa since Peter made it for him earlier that morning.  He’s used to going hungry sometimes, for a day or two or even three.  And right now, he doesn’t feel like moving, much less going to the effort of eating.

Peter’s left a window open since he brought him here, and he appreciates that.  He can leave anytime, and that helps settle his fight-or-flight instinct.

“Miłosław.”  Peter’s standing in front of him now, close enough for him to bare his teeth for the shifter without having to move.

Peter cocks his head in a strangely dog-like way, and he’s reminded of the fact that while he knows Peter is a were, he still doesn’t know what kind.

Is weredog a thing?  He hopes not.  Dogs are dumb.  He can’t say he much likes dogs.

“If you don’t like Miłosław,” Peter says at last, squatting down so that they’re at about the same height.  “Is there something else I can call you?”

He huffs, disgruntled.  _Obviously_ , he can’t answer.  Maybe Peter _is_ a dog after all.

Peter just sighs in response like _he’s_ the troublesome one.  “Cat it is then.”  The man arches a pointed eyebrow.  “You still need to eat.”

It’s his turn to sigh.  But then Peter places a saucer of milk and some pan-fried fish on the floor between them, and his nose twitches at the tempting smells wafting up towards him.

Peter notices of course and smirks.  It’s kind of… irritating.  A part of him wants to reject the meal just for that, but then his stomach betrays him, gurgling longingly, and with another peeved sigh, he gets up and stretches before jumping nimbly to the ground.

He scarfs up the fish and laps up the milk in record time.  They’re both delicious.

Peter watches him, smirk tempered to a funny half-smile that makes the man look younger and less damaged, and maybe that’s part of the reason he rears up and puts a paw on Peter’s knee once he’s done cleaning his whiskers.

Peter chuckles and gives him a few chin scritches.  “You’re welcome, sweetheart.  No birds this time though, I hope?  The gesture was very thoughtful but I usually prefer buying my meat from the supermarket.”

He snorts and lowers all four legs back to the floor.  Briefly, he debates hunting down a rat for Peter instead but Peter will probably appreciate that even less.  People generally don’t like rats.  Even he doesn’t like rodents that much.  He prefers birds.

He hops back up onto the couch, circles once, and lies down again, lifting a paw to wash his face.  Peter gathers up the empty dishes and heads back to the kitchen.  The dishwasher starts a few minutes later, and then Peter comes back and joins him on the couch with a book for the rest of the evening.

 

* * *

 

It rains again, later that night.  Even for spring, in Beacon Hills, it’s a pretty wet one this year, but he supposes that’s still better than the near months-long drought they had a few years back.

He slips out through the window once Peter is asleep.  It was nice for a little while, when he didn’t feel like going anywhere and couldn’t muster up enough energy to do more than breathe, but it’s time to go home.  The rain’s pretty light this time so he’s only a bit damp by the time he reaches his willow tree.  He stops to nuzzle at both stones, and then he ducks back into his nest.

He listens to the silence of the cemetery until he falls into an uneasy sleep.

 

* * *

 

Peter is back the next day with breakfast for both of them and a couple magazines under his arm, it surprises him probably more than it should.  The man doesn’t say anything about their relocation to the cemetery; he just sits down and rips up a bagel before putting the pieces into a tiny bowl, and then he takes out another for himself.

He hasn’t known Peter long, but considering what they share, secrets and loss and tragedy, they’re probably past the point of any kind of debt between them now.  So he eats the food Peter gives him and doesn’t think about paying him back.  And when Peter curls fingers into his fur, he doesn’t hiss or bite him.

Peter is apparently a clothing design buff because the magazines he brought are full of shirts and dresses and pants that he seems to love criticizing with professional authority.  Some of the vocabulary that the man uses go right over his head but he listens anyway, mostly amused and content to watch Peter wave his arms around as he laments a bias cut skirt done wrong or grumbles over a crooked appliqué.

“And these two styles are completely-” Peter cuts himself off, turning to blink down at him, probably because he’s suddenly lifted his head, ears pricking.

The older shifter frowns.  “What is it?”

His tail swishes once through the grass behind him.  For a long moment, he stares down at the magazine spread open in front of them, perfectly still in a way only felines can be.  And then he leans forward to nose at the magazine, his eyes slowly making out some of the letters on the page.  It takes him far too long, but eventually, he picks out the word that matches what Peter said.

_…s-t-y-l-e-s…_

No, that isn’t quite right.  That’s not how he used to spell it.

“Cat?”  Peter prompts from above him, one hand coming to rest lightly on his back.

He doesn’t answer out loud.  Instead, he puts a paw over the word, then carefully extends one claw and slices a vertical line through the _y_.

“…Let me guess,” Peter deadpans dryly.  “You hate these hem styles as much as I do.”

He gives the older shifter a very flat _look_.  He’d roll his eyes if he could.  Peter just smirks, but his gaze turns thoughtful as he glances between him and the magazine.

“Stiles?”  Peter says at last, slowly like he’s testing the syllable on his tongue.  “Stiles.  Is that your name?  Should I call you Stiles?”

_Stiles._

_“Come on, Stiles!  You’re going to be late for school!”_

_“Stiles, don’t run!  Wait until we’re at the park.”_

_“Stiles, no, just- this case is important.  I need to go.”_

_“Stiles, I’m busy.  I’ll talk to you in a bit, okay?”_

_“Don’t touch that bottle, Stiles.  Just… go to your room.”_

_“Stiles-”_

He gets to his feet.  Peter’s hand falls from his back, but then the man makes a surprised noise, probably because he – _StilesStilesStiles you forgot that for a while too, didn’t you?_ – hops into Peter’s lap, stepping on jean-clad thighs as he circles once to make himself comfortable, and then plops down to rest his head on one conveniently positioned knee.

Peter is silent for a few heartbeats before he huffs a laugh under his breath.

“Stiles it is then,” He agrees, more affection in his voice than even Stiles – _Stiles, you’re Stiles, don’t forget again_ – expects.

Later, when Peter gets up to go home, Stiles – _StilesStilesStiles_ – hooks himself around Peter’s neck and hitches a ride back to the apartment.

This time, he stays the night, sleeping on the nest of blankets on the couch that Peter hasn’t cleared away.

 

* * *

 

Stiles goes back to the cemetery the next day, but he only stays for the morning.  Peter says he wants to visit the bookstore today so Stiles goes with him, weaving through the busy streets at his own pace but always angled in a way that keeps Peter in sight, and he snarls when they pass a Chihuahua that tries to yap at him.

The Chihuahua yelps and skitters away behind its owner’s legs.  The owner gives Peter a dirty look, one that Peter returns with a shamelessly smug smirk.

Stiles can almost hear the silent _my cat is better than your dog_.

He snorts at the situation in general and strolls away, tail waving haughtily behind him.

The corner bookshop they go to is small but cozy and smells of wood and ink.  There’s no sign out front that says No Dogs or No Cats or even No Pets so Stiles throws Peter an insistent look, and Peter is willing enough to pick him up again and let him ride on his shoulders.

Something like an old, wistful yearning tugs at him when he sees the shelves upon shelves of paperbacks and hardcovers lining the walls.  If Peter notices, he doesn’t say, but he always seems to know when a title catches Stiles’ eye, and they’d stop for a few minutes to browse that section.

Not many people notice him around Peter’s neck – they probably think he’s a particularly bulky scarf or something – so there’s quite a few double-takes when they _do_ notice.

Stiles ignores them all.  There aren’t that many people in the bookshop anyway, and nobody says anything even when they spot him.

Instead, he meows in Peter’s ear whenever he decides he really doesn’t want to move on without a particular book, and Peter obligingly takes it off the shelf for him.  He pays no one else a jot of attention.

By the time they reach the cash register, they have a stack of ten books, and Stiles watches the whole exchange of money with inquisitive interest.

He has vague memories of giving people a plastic card.  But Peter pays with paper and… and coins.  Coins, that’s right.  Coins exist.  Stiles resolves to have a closer look at Peter’s wallet when they get back to the apartment.

“What a handsome cat!”  The woman at the counter coos, dimpling a smile at Stiles and then a wider smile at Peter.

Stiles eyes her coolly and spits out a hiss when she tries to reach out and pet him.  She snatches her hand back, eyes going wide.

It’s only because Stiles is a cat that he smells the amusement on Peter at all.  Outwardly, the older shifter only offers a genial, slightly apologetic smile to the woman.

“He’s a bit high-strung,” He tells her.  “Sorry about that.”

Within seconds, Peter has her giggling and blushing and giving them a discount.  Stiles watches it all with growing annoyance because even as a cat, he knows what’s going on, especially when the arousal hits.  With an irritated growl at the back of his throat, he leaps off Peter’s shoulders, making sure to leave claw marks in the man’s coat, and then stalks for the door, slipping out when someone pushes it open to come in.

It takes a good twenty minutes for Peter to find him, catching up to where Stiles has passive-aggressively parked himself under a park bench at the nearby waterfront, watching a flock of pigeons waddle about mindlessly.

Peter doesn’t say anything right away.  Instead, he sits down on the bench, setting down a bag of books beside him.  For a few minutes, nothing happens, but just as Stiles is debating the pros and cons of leaving, there’s a crinkle of plastic above him, and then something salty and delicious reaches his nose.  A moment later, Peter has something small and silvery dangling in front of Stiles.

_Fish!_

Stiles sways forward but pulls back a second before he gobbles up the snack.  He scowls.  He is _not_ going to be _bribed_.  His forgiveness cannot be bought!

…But it really does smell very good.  Fish in the wild aren’t exactly salted when he catches them.

Peter wiggles the fish in tantalizing twitches.  Stiles stubbornly holds out for another three minutes before huffing grouchily and then leaning forward and snapping up the snack.  He makes certain to bite Peter’s fingers while he’s at it.

And then he concentrates on savouring the dried piece of fish.

It takes Peter feeding him half the bag before Stiles deigns to come out from under the bench and hop up onto it instead.  Amused blue eyes meet his even as Peter gives him another fish.

“Forgiven me yet?”  Peter enquires.

Stiles sniffs and turns his head away.

“I only wanted a discount.”  Peter nudges him lightly.  “You don’t have to be jealous, sweetheart.”

Jealous?  Who’s jealous?  Not Stiles.

He just… He just doesn’t like Peter’s attention focused elsewhere.

He looks down.  At his paws.  He has paws, not arms and legs and hands and feet.

He’s a _cat_.  And cats aren’t…

“Stiles?”

He looks up and Peter’s leaned forward to peer directly at his face, this time with a real hint of concern.  Stiles’ scent is probably giving him away.  Or something.

Abruptly, he springs to his feet.  He doesn’t even know _what_ his scent is giving away, just that the very thought of- of all this makes him feel agitated and angry.

He jumps off the bench.

“Stiles?  Where are you going?”

He races off, disappearing into some nearby foliage and leaving Peter behind in a matter of seconds.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t go back to the willow tree or even the cemetery.  That’s the first place Peter will look, if he bothers to look at all.  Instead, Stiles heads into the woods, letting the natural silence cocoon him and shut out the noisy cacophony of civilization.

He doesn’t stop until he reaches a river that has a slow current and copses of trees on either side.  It’s his favourite place in the forest; nobody comes here to interrupt him, not even other predators.  He doesn’t always remember it but he’s not _just_ a cat.  He’s a werecat, so he probably smells different, and animals like bears and mountain lions tend to stay away.  He’s only met three of the former and one of the latter over the past six years, and all four times, while they didn’t exactly run away, they didn’t stick around to posture or threaten to eat Stiles either despite how much smaller Stiles was compared to them.

This river is his.  He’s visited this part of the forest enough times to claim it, just as much as he’s claimed the hill in the cemetery.  Fish swim lazily through the water, birds chirp in the branches above.  Stiles moves to the edge of the river and peer down at his own reflection.

A cat’s face stares back, brown and white in colour, with long hair and tufted ears and large amber eyes.  Nobody would call him truly adorable, just as nobody with any kind of sense would call a half-grown tiger adorable.  He looks too wild for that.

There’s so little human in him these days.  Peter hasn’t said a word about it, probably on purpose, but either way, he hasn’t tried to force Stiles to shift back, hasn’t even suggested it, subtly or otherwise.  He’s just… kept Stiles company, for some reason, ever since the man went out of his way to help a stray cat in the middle of a thunderstorm.  Stiles is certain Peter didn’t know what he was until he flashed his eyes at the older shifter.

Maybe Peter pities him.  Reduced to an animal because he couldn’t… couldn’t handle the loss of his clan, his family, couldn’t handle the panic that filled him when he realized there were people literally out to kill him.

Couldn’t handle knowing that even if he returned to being human again, he’d be put with some random foster family who _wouldn’t be family_ , he’d be all alone, and that was just… too wrong for him to accept.  It was just easier to be a cat.

But Peter arguably lost even more, and was horribly hurt, horribly scarred, and _he’s_ still walking around on two legs.

Stiles is just… weak.

The snap of a twig makes him look up, turning narrowed eyes at the trees where the sound came from.  He’s upwind of whatever it is so he can’t pinpoint a scent.

Another twig snaps, and then a hulking black wolf with bright blue eyes appears, startling Stiles onto his feet, fur bristling.  In all the years he’s roamed these woods, not once has he ever met a wolf.  Are wolves even supposed to be this big…?

The wolf makes a whuffing noise as it moves forward.  Stiles blinks in wary confusion because every step it takes telegraphs harmlessness.

Then the wind shifts, and the familiar smell is like a slap in the face.  Stiles’ fur smooths out instinctively as he realizes who it is.

Peter joins him on the riverbank.  The wolf towers over Stiles but Stiles doesn’t feel threatened at all.  He touches noses with Peter before circling him curiously, never having seen a wolf before.  Peter watches him, radiating amusement and growling playfully when Stiles swats his tail with one paw.

Stiles pauses, cocking his head.  Then he bends down, gives the wolf’s tail a quick sharp nip, and then darts off into the nearest bushes, hissing with cackles.

He doesn’t need to look behind him or even hear the short howl to know Peter’s given chase.

Peter catches him in the end but Stiles does lead him on a merry chase through the woods for a good fifteen minutes, utilizing his size and speed to evade the wolf on his heels.  Peter bowls him over when they near the edge of a lake, pitching both of them into the water, and Stiles claws his way back to the surface with raucous accusatory yowls.

He may not mind getting wet but that doesn’t mean he enjoys drowning.  Dumb wolf.  He _knew_ Peter has canine genes.

He sprawls out on the sun-warm grass.  Peter shakes himself off – out of range of Stiles, fortunately – before joining him.

He grumbles when a rough tongue starts grooming him, but he doesn’t actually mind enough to shove Peter away, especially when the wolf is being pretty gentle about it.  So he simply stretches out and enjoys it.  At least Peter is sensible enough to make sure to groom Stiles’ fur in the right direction.

He’s lulled to sleep under Peter’s ministrations, and by the time he wakes again, Peter’s somehow moved Stiles onto his back, and they’re loping through the forest at a swift but steady gait.

They stop at the treeline.  Peter seems to know Stiles is already awake but he’s still careful as he lies down to let Stiles slide off his back.

Stiles yawns and watches idly as Peter shifts back to human before pulling out a cache of clothes tucked inside a tree.

Most of the contentment he feels from the run and then the grooming session fades.  He blinks once, then turns to slink away into the undergrowth on his left.

“Stiles, wait.”

Stiles stops just short of the shrubbery in front of him but doesn’t turn around again.  Peter sighs from behind him before a shadow falls over him and a hand drops onto his back.

“It’s fine,” Peter tells him after a moment of contemplative silence.  “To want to stay a cat.  You don’t have to shift until you feel you’re ready.  Do you understand, sweetheart?  There’s no rush.”  He pauses, his hand running absently through Stiles’ fur.  “I honestly can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same after the fire, but I couldn’t shift for the longest time because of the burns and the coma.  I wasn’t even conscious for a lot of that time, and then I was paralyzed and stuck in my own body.  So I didn’t get that choice, because if I did, I probably would have stayed shifted too.”

Stiles doesn’t resist when Peter picks him up and cradles him in his arms.

“Grief is easier to deal with as an animal,” Peter remarks quietly, and Stiles can’t disagree.

Then Peter follows that up with, “And it’s instinct to want to escape it, in any way you can.  That doesn’t make it wrong.  It doesn’t make you a weak person or even a bad son.  It just makes you…” He breathes out a sardonic scoff of a laugh.  “-human.”

When the werewolf begins making his way back towards the town, Stiles stays with him.

 

* * *

 

They visit the cemetery in the morning, except this time, after stopping by the Stilinski graves, Stiles follows Peter over to the Hales.  The Hale family is one of the oldest in Beacon Hills so they have their own plot of land in the cemetery, and the ones Peter stops at make up the newest row of tombstones that Stiles has patrolled before.

He had a vague idea that it was something like his duty.  It’s probably part of the reason why this whole cemetery has come under his protection and hardly anybody ever tries to mess around here anymore.

Peter is silent as he walks past each one.  He doesn’t speak to them, the way Stiles has seen people do.  But he stops in front of each one for a few minutes, scarred features unreadable, and he touches each tombstone briefly before he moves on.

Stiles sits a respectful distance away, letting Peter take his time.  This is the first time that the man has visited his family; Stiles would know otherwise.  Even if he doesn’t actually see them, nobody steps foot inside this place without Stiles at least picking up on their scent after they’ve left, and aside from the owners and employees who are responsible for the upkeep of the area, as well as Stiles himself, _nobody_ has visited the Hales since Stiles moved in three months after they were buried.  Possibly _since they were buried_ because he knows for a fact that… that those two kids, not really kids, though the younger one was still a minor, Stiles just can’t remember their names – either way, they hightailed out of Beacon Hills before their family’s bodies were even cold in the ground, and therefore before Dad could interrogate them.  Dad threw quite a few whiskey glasses over that dead-end.

When Peter finishes crouching in front of the last headstone – a companion one with _Joseph Hale_ on the left and _Talia Hale_ on the right – he wanders back over to join Stiles, scooping him up without speaking.

Stiles purrs at him, a soothing motor rumble in his chest as he presses his face into the crook of Peter’s neck.  Peter’s grip on him tightens, and for a while, they just stand there, unmoving.

“Let’s go home,” Peter says at last.

Stiles doesn’t correct him.

 

* * *

 

They’re watching the evening local news when Stiles finally begins getting a picture of what exactly Peter is doing on the Argent front.

“-police are still looking into the string of animal attacks in the area-” is what gives it away, because Stiles hasn’t smelled any such thing in the woods.  If a new predator was in town, he would know.  He sits up abruptly, listening much more intently as pictures of several faces – four in total – are shown on the screen, one by one.

Beside him, Peter is silent.

There’s one face, at the end, an Adrian Harris, killed just over a week ago, who looks vaguely familiar to Stiles.  It takes a few long minutes of wracking his brain, and by the time he dredges up the memory, the weather forecaster’s come on.

That’s right; Dad arrested him on suspicions of being part of the arson conspiracy that killed the Hales but was released when nothing could be proven.  The Sheriff was the only one who believed that it was arson instead of an accident so it didn’t make him very popular when he kept pushing the issue.  By proxy, it didn’t make Stiles very popular either.  Parents talked, kids talked, and Stiles never had many friends at school in the first place.  Or _any_ friends for that matter.

It probably made disappearing even easier.  Nobody missed him enough to insist on pursuing his missing persons case.

Stiles isn’t stupid.  He may have forgotten some things over the years, but he can make connections just as well as he used to.  And the conclusion he reaches… well.

He glances up.  Peter is already staring back at him, a little guarded, a little hopeful.

Stiles plants his paws on the werewolf’s thigh and _mrreow_ s at him.  He considers for a moment before stretching up and giving Peter’s scarred cheek a reassuring lick.

Peter jerks like he’s been hit, but before Stiles can jump back in alarm – _do those scars still hurt?_ – the man bundles him into his arms and cuddles him to his chest.

Stiles may not be very adorable but he _is_ a cat, and cats happen to be very cuddly.  When they want to be of course.

He nuzzles into Peter’s chest, purring again.  Peter gives him ear scratches in return.  Neither of them moves until the commercials come on.

“Stiles?”  Peter ducks his head to catch his eye.  “There’s something I want to show you.”

 

* * *

 

Peter has a study with walls covered in newspaper articles and maps.  The articles are pretty morbid, all of them detailing deaths of some kind – supposed accidents, muggings, straight-up murders, and arsons.  The maps aren’t just of America either.  There are two of the States, one of Canada, one of Mexico, even a couple of various parts of Europe, and all have red circles and lines decorating them.

“That’s everything I have on the Argents,” Peter explains as Stiles leaps nimbly onto the desk.  “I used to be a lawyer, and I was my pack’s enforcer, so I still have some contacts and sources from before the fire.  I managed to track down most of the Argents’… jobs,” His lip curls into a sneer.  “The kills they’ve made spanning back around twenty-five years.  I’m sure I’m missing some but what I _do_ have is damning enough.”

It definitely looks that way.  Stiles peruses the articles, picking out all the pieces that don’t quite fit, from the murders that hint at the supernatural and hunter intervention to the ‘accidents’ that practically scream homicide.

Whole families have fallen to fire, all of them labelled accidents, none of them with a single survivor.  Until the Hales.

God, how can the cops not _notice_ this stuff?  _Peter’s_ connected all the dots just fine, not to mention dug up quite a bit of evidence, and when compiled all together like this, it’s enough to send anyone to jail ten times over.

“The Argents have good lawyers,” Peter says as if reading Stiles’ mind.  “And very widespread influence.  They’re an old family, and one of the top names in the weapons manufacturing business, with a contract with the government.  They’ve practically turned covering up murder into an art form.”  His eyes burn into a photo of an old man.  “Especially him.  Gerard Argent.  The Argents supposedly follow the lead of the matriarch but he’s the one who pulls the strings.  Possibly without the matriarch knowing.  He’s as manipulative as they come, a true psychopath who sees us as nothing more than monsters that should be put down, and he _enjoys_ it.  Doesn’t care if innocents get in the way either; the more the merrier for him, and Kate is his prized protégé.  She was the mastermind behind the fire that killed my family, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she did it on Gerard’s – her father’s – orders.  They have a Code they’re supposed to follow – “We hunt those who hunt us.” – but-” He laughs, and it’s a cold, cynical sound.  “-obviously, they prefer preaching it far more than they practice it.”

Stiles stops in front of a picture of Kate.  Kate Argent.  No matter what he forgets, that’s one face he never will.  The face of his mother’s murderer, grinning as she put a final bullet in Mom’s head.

He doesn’t even realize his eyes are glowing and he’s bared his fangs until Peter pets a calming hand down his back.

“She’ll die,” Peter tells him with absolute, almost zen-like certainty.  “It’s the only reason I haven’t turned all this evidence over to the police and the Tribunal yet.”  His eyes flare that electric blue.  “I don’t want her in prison.  I want her _dead_.”  His gaze switches to Gerard.  “But I want _him_ alive.  I want him to watch his whole empire fall while he sits helplessly behind bars.”

Peter turns to look at Stiles, and there’s that feverish gleam in his eyes again.  “You understand, don’t you, Stiles?  You understand why I have to do this.”

This is the moment where Stiles should… probably be scared, if only because he sees it, the insanity that’s been lurking under the civilized veneer Peter wears in public.  In front of Stiles too, until now.  A part of Stiles did wonder – Peter lost his whole pack, either to the fire or to deliberate abandonment, he’s by all rights an omega, and he spent six years trapped in a coma, touched by strangers in a building that would never have been able to smell remotely safe, and yet, he seemed well-adjusted.

 _Too_ well-adjusted.

But at the same time, the fact that he can pretend at all, and Stiles is pretty sure not all of it is a pretense either, means Peter isn’t as far gone as he could be.  And honestly…

He glances around the study, at the pictures, the articles, the maps, the _evidence_.  The sheer _awfulness_ of it all.

Who can blame Peter for going a little mad?  Heck, Stiles isn’t exactly all there either.  He can’t even handle life without shifting into an animal.  Besides, it isn’t as if Stiles sees anything wrong with destroying the people responsible for murdering the Hales.  For murdering his mom, and then his dad.

He turns back to Peter, who hasn’t looked away, hasn’t even moved.  Stiles rears up on his hind legs and puts his paws on Peter’s shoulders so that they’re nose to nose as he nods solemnly.  It’s probably the most human he’s been so far.

Peter smiles, a surprisingly genuine, shockingly bright expression, and the mad light in his eyes ebbs, leaving behind something calmer and saner.  Something less angry at the world that broke him.  A boost of the werewolf’s hand has Stiles draped comfortably across his shoulders again, and then Peter begins walking around the room, explaining his thought process and research to Stiles with an eagerness that makes him sound like he’s never had anyone to confide in in his life before.

Stiles rests his chin on his paws, growling in Peter’s ear on occasion whenever something doesn’t make sense, or Peter goes too fast, and Peter backtracks and clarifies for him.

He gets the picture soon enough.  The murders will lure Kate back, possibly Gerard too, and with the matriarch and the Argent son – Chris – already living in town with their daughter for whatever fucked up reason (maybe they like to be near one of their family conquests, who the hell knows with psychos like the Argents), he and Peter will be in the perfect position to watch the main family collapse once Peter’s turned in all the evidence.

“I haven’t found any concrete evidence against Christopher and Victoria though, only circumstantial,” Peter sighs almost wistfully.  “So that will depend on the courts, and they’ll probably wiggle out of jail time in the end.  But their reputation will be in tatters, they’ll never hunt again, and their finances won’t know what hit them after the Tribunal is through dividing up the monetary compensation they’ll be forced to give.”  Peter smirks grimly.  “I can live with that.”

He pauses and glances at Stiles.  “Is there anything you want?  You’ll get your portion of the money of course; at the very least, the Argents will be forced to compensate every family they murdered without cause, even if that means their grandchildren will still be paying off the debt.  So you’ll get your share.  I can work you into the case without giving you away, although even if the Tribunal does find out, you’ll be considered under my care, and they won’t blame you for staying shifted.  There are shifters on the Tribunal so they’ll understand.  But if you don’t want them to know, that’s fine too.  I can have a bank account opened for you, under your name if you ever surface again since you were never declared dead.  So, other than money, is there anything else you want?”

Stiles thinks, _my family_ , but of course, he doesn’t say that.  He shakes his head instead.  Part of him doesn’t even want the money, doesn’t really see the need for it, what’s he going to do with it?  But maybe he can give it to Peter.  The werewolf’s been feeding him and giving him room and board, and he’ll be going to court on Stiles’ behalf too; that sort of stuff costs money, right?  And there were those books from the other day as well, currently stacked on the coffee table.  So whatever Peter can get for Stiles out of the Argents, Stiles can just give it all to Peter afterwards.  It’s fairer that way.

Peter hums noncommittally, his gaze going sharp as he scrutinizes Stiles more closely, but in the end, he doesn’t say anything

“The only thing I’m missing now,” Peter muses with a faint frown.  “Is evidence of communication between Kate and my nephew.  She’ll be dead, but I still want her charged with statutory rape, and her affair with Derek is the best chance I’ll have to prove it.  I’m quite certain it’s not her first time seducing a minor but I can’t find anything to corroborate it.  She did a thorough job destroying any paper or electronic trails.”  His mouth twists with distaste, his scars only emphasizing the emotion.  “And she’s had more than enough time to wipe any phone records that would’ve existed six years ago.  I even tried- Stiles?”

Stiles has gone very still, listening attentively to every word coming out of Peter’s mouth even as his own memories restlessly stir.

_Phone records._

_Text messages._

_Paper trails._

_What was Daddy working on again?  Dennis- Darryl- Daniel?  Someone, was showing off to his friends at school once, on a computer, just a few tricks, and nobody noticed Stiles lurking nearby, nobody ever did unless Stiles wanted them to, and Stiles was always a quick learner.  He wanted to know what Dad was working on, always staying late, staying out, buried in work when he wasn’t buried in alcohol, and Stiles wanted to know – maybe he could help! – so he hacked into his dad’s home computer, and there were pages and pages of names and numbers and words, and Stiles… Stiles copied it all, didn’t he?  Even the report in the safe because he learned how to open that years ago.  He took pictures, and he copied all of Dad’s work onto- onto-_

He bounds to the floor, landing on silent feet before rushing out, Peter on his heels.

“Stiles?  Stiles!”

He meows loudly at the front door, and after a quizzical glance down, Peter unlocks and opens it for him.  Stiles hurries outside, waiting only long enough to make sure Peter is following, and then he takes off, down the steps, across the parking lot, and straight back to the cemetery.

_Someone broke in.  Someone who wanted to hurt Stiles.  Someone who wanted to kill him like they killed his mom and dad.  So Stiles hid.  He was smart enough to hide instead of trying to make a run for it.  And it was… it was instinct to grab the USB that contained a backup of all his dad’s work, it was where his mind leapt the instant he heard a car pull up outside, which turned out to be a good thing because the person who came looking for Stiles smashed up all the computers and laptops in the house and tore apart Dad’s office and even took all the paperwork in the filing cabinet and safe with him when he left._

He runs all the way to the cemetery.  It’s closed for the day but Peter simply climbs the gates with ease while Stiles slips between the bars.  He could find his willow tree blind.

His nest needs fluffing up.  He makes a mental reminder of that, for when he might need to come back and sleep here.  Inside, at the very back, tucked into his nest and largely forgotten until now, is the rectangular stick he’s looking for.  It’s still intact, and subconsciously, he’s kept it dry and hidden all these years.

Carefully, he picks it up with his teeth before turning and ducking back out of the tree.  Peter is waiting for him a few feet away, immediately crouching down when he sees Stiles come back out, device glinting between his teeth.  Stiles trots over and drops it into Peter’s outstretched hand.

Peter stares.  First at the USB, then at Stiles, then back.  Disbelief mingles with dawning realization and amazement, and Stiles tries not to preen.  It isn’t as if he did much after all; it’s mostly whatever information his dad managed to amass, with a tiny bit of guesswork, connect-the-dots, and research from Stiles that he only had time to start on before his dad was killed.  After that, all he did was keep the USB safe, and most of _that_ time, he wasn’t even really aware of doing it.

But Peter smirks with devious glee, and they jog back to Peter’s apartment as fast as they can.  Peter opens the contents on his laptop, and they both scan the pages and pages of phone records and text messages and even emails between Derek Hale and a phone registered to Katie Silvers.  They’re flirty and intimate, with overtones of an adult woman coming on to a fumbling teenager, ranging from sweet talk to dirty talk.  The disgust is plain on Peter’s face as he reads through each conversation, and Stiles gets a glimpse of _-want your dick in my-_ in one of the messages before Peter casts him a swift appraising look and then puts a hand over Stiles’ eyes until he’s scrolled past that bit.

Stiles meows indignantly.  Peter adamantly ignores him.

Then there are the papers that trace Katie Silvers’ credentials as Beacon Hills High School’s new English teacher six years ago straight back to the real identity of Katherine Argent.

It probably helped that Kate was clearly overconfident, possibly bolstered even more by her previous successes, and wasn’t as meticulous as she could’ve been.  That, or this was simply the level of her skills.  But also too, Stiles’ dad really was a good cop.

( _He just… wasn’t much of a dad near the end._ )

A _crunch_ draws Stiles’ attention downward, and he blinks when he sees the mouse in Peter’s hand, now in a hundred irreparable pieces.  He glances at Peter, and then follows the man’s glaring line of sight to a column of texts on the screen.

> **Katie** : I know we have to keep our relationship quiet for now, darling, but with your parents on their honeymoon and most of the rest of your family on vacation, it will be the perfect chance for me to come over.
> 
> **Derek:** Yea but laura will still be around.
> 
> **Katie:** We can wait until she’s at work.
> 
> **Katie:** It’s just I feel like we’re always hiding over at my apartment. I’d love to see where my boyfriend lives, even if it’s just once. I’d love to see your room. Your bed. I’d love to explore your bed.
> 
> **Katie:** You’re blushing, aren’t you? It’s a cute look on you.
> 
> **Derek:** Don’t call me that.
> 
> **Katie:** I’m just teasing. You know I adore you.
> 
> **Derek:** I’d like for u to come over. But even if laura isn’t around she’ll smell u when she comes home.
> 
> **Katie:** Right. Because of the whole werewolf thing.
> 
> **Derek:** Yea
> 
> **Derek:** Remember u can’t tell anyone.
> 
> **Katie:** Of course not. I promised, didn’t I? I won’t tell a soul.
> 
> **Katie:** But are you sure there’s no way around that? You could open the windows and air out the house after I leave.
> 
> **Derek:** She’ll probably still smell you on the front lawn.
> 
> **Katie:** Is there another way in? Back door maybe?
> 
> **Derek:** Same problem.
> 
> **Derek:** Um
> 
> **Katie:** Derek?
> 
> **Derek:** There might be another way.
> 
> **Derek:** U can’t tell anyone about this either tho.
> 
> **Katie:** Sweetie, you know you can trust me.
> 
> **Derek:** Right I know. It’s just my mom told me I couldn’t tell anyone.
> 
> **Katie:** I think you’re mature enough to make your own decisions. You were brave enough to tell me about werewolves and everything turned out fine, right? She might be your mother and your alpha but you’re still your own person. Do you really still need her permission for every little thing like a child?
> 
> **Derek:** Of course not.
> 
> **Katie:** And you trust me enough to tell me, don’t you?
> 
> **Katie:** I love you, Derek, I wouldn’t want you doing anything you aren’t comfortable with.
> 
> **Derek:** No
> 
> **Derek:** I mean yes, I trust you. I love you too.
> 
> **Derek:** Ok the basement in my house opens out to an underground system of tunnels.  They were built by some ancestors, it was supposed to be an escape route or sth. U can come in from one of the ones that open outside the preserve, I can show it to u tomorrow, and I’ll just air out the house after u leave. I mean we open a lot of windows anyway when the weather’s good so it won’t be weird. Laura will never know.
> 
> **Katie:** Sounds perfect, darling. I knew you’d think of something.
> 
> **Derek:** And ul definitely keep the tunnels a secret right?
> 
> **Katie:** I promise.

Peter stands abruptly and storms out of the study.  Stiles reads for a few seconds longer before jumping down and following the werewolf.

Peter’s on the balcony, arms propped on the railing, head hung down to rest on his arms, shoulders slumped with something like defeat.  Stiles leaps onto the railing, balancing easily on the inches-wide piece of wood as he seats himself beside Peter’s elbow.  He plants a paw on the werewolf’s arm but otherwise stays silent.

It seems like forever before Peter finally raises his head.  His eyes are dry, and there’s no scent of tears, but there’s something bleak and desolate in his expression all the same, made worse by the scars on his face.

Stiles wonders if they haunt him whenever Peter looks in the mirror, a physical reminder of everything he’s lost.  Of everything he couldn’t save.

“That fool boy,” Peter says hoarsely, staring sightlessly out at the dark horizon.  “How can _anyone_ be _so stupid?_ ”

Rage sparks in the blue, and the sudden slam of his fist into the railing literally cracks the wood.  Stiles is just surprised it hasn’t turned to splinters, even as he wobbles precariously in place, biting back a yowl of protest.

But the sight of him alone seems to snap Peter out of his fit of temper, and the fury folds under apologetic concern as the werewolf quickly gathers Stiles up into his arms.

He sighs, shifting Stiles into one arm before scrubbing a tired hand over his face.  They head back inside, back into the study.  Peter lets him off on the desk before collapsing into a chair himself.  One of his hands absently sweeps what’s left of the mouse into the wastebasket at his feet even as his gaze finds the laptop screen again.

He scoffs.  Stiles cants his head enquiringly.

Peter shakes his head.  “Derek has never been able to see through even the simplest of manipulations.  I should know; I manipulated him all the time when he was even younger.  It was fun, at first, but even that lost its humour value when he never _learned_.  Katie here is so obvious, it hurts,” He smirks ironically when Stiles nods along in full agreement.  “But Derek clearly didn’t suspect a thing.”  His jaw tightens, and his eyes go distant.  “Talia – my sister – she liked him honest.  Her little boy, her eldest son.  But Derek was never really _honest_ , no more than the next average teenager to their parents.  He was just… naïve.”

He laughs a little then, mirthless and empty.  “Never thought _that_ would be our pack’s downfall.  I guarded us against potential threats from everywhere.  Except from within.”  He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes.  “I am an idiot.”

Well now, that’s going a bit far.  Stiles clacks across the keyboard to get Peter’s attention, and then he slaps a paw onto one of the papers scattered on the desk, right over Derek’s name.

Peter quirks a slight shadow of a smile.  “Well, I suppose I can’t argue with that.  Derek _is_ an idiot.  A _gullible_ idiot, but an idiot nonetheless.  One could even argue that that makes him an idiot twice over.”

Stiles snorts, then searches out Kate’s name and rakes his claws through that next.  This time, Peter grins, all teeth, and Stiles can almost see the resolve seep back into the werewolf, unmistakeable in the straightening of his spine and the flash of his eyes.

“I can’t argue with that either,” Peter agrees, one hand retrieving a second mouse from a drawer, his other rubbing Stiles’ ears in wordless thanks.  “Let’s get back to work.”

Stiles purrs his approval and sits down next to the keyboard again as they both resume their examination of all the evidence Stiles’ dad managed to collect before he died.

If Peter’s hand remains tangled loosely in the scruff of Stiles’ neck, neither of them mentions it.

 

* * *

 

Morning sees Peter shuffling around the kitchen making a pot of tea for himself.  Stiles snoozes on and off on the dining table.  Neither of them got much sleep last night, staying up until dawn organizing all the new information into Peter’s ongoing case file.

They’re mostly done.  Peter did most of the legwork before Stiles ever even met him.  From what Stiles saw of that study, it honestly seems as if Peter did nothing _but_ investigation and research in the however many months he’s been out of the hospital, obsessing over the fire and the Argents and his own revenge.  It’s a wonder the werewolf ever found the time to visit Stiles at all, or even the desire to visit him.

Stiles actually still isn’t entirely sure _why_ Peter’s taken such a shine to him, but he’s glad for it anyway.  He never really thought he missed having company until Peter barged into his life.

Whatever the reason, Stiles is fairly certain Peter isn’t obsessing quite as badly anymore.  He wants justice for his mom and dad as much as Peter wants it for his pack, but he doesn’t think it’s particularly healthy to focus on that and nothing else.  Then again, all things considered, it isn’t as if Stiles’ method of dealing was – is – any better, so what does he know?

But a handful more hours between them will see to it that the rest of what the Sheriff dug up will be properly added to the evidence pile.  The only thing left after that is to wait for Kate to arrive, and that shouldn’t take very long either.

The point is, they have time.    They crashed at dawn, and a glance at the clock now tells him it’s almost noon.  Peter already told him they need to go grocery shopping today, but they could visit the cemetery beforehand, and then after, Stiles could pick what they would do.

And it’s… nice.  For all that Peter hasn’t pushed him into shifting back, he’s never treated Stiles like a mere cat either, and Stiles is grateful for that.

“Tea?”  Peter asks blearily, still not entirely awake.  He’s rumpled from sleep, hair tousled, wearing only a pair of thin pajama pants.  Like this, Stiles can see the way his scars extend past his face and neck, marring his right shoulder and a good portion of his chest and back.

He doesn’t seem to mind Stiles seeing the scars, though he was a bit tense last night (early this morning) when they went to bed and Peter changed out of his day clothes, relaxing only when Stiles simply rubs his cheek against Peter’s before making himself comfortable at the end of the werewolf’s bed.

If it occurred to Peter that Stiles just gravitated into the werewolf’s bedroom for the very first time, Peter didn’t mention it.

“Mrrp,” Stiles decides, so Peter pours him a saucer of tea.  He’s never drank tea before.  It was mostly soft drinks for him, when he didn’t feel like drinking water.  Whiskey too, for a few months, because he was curious, and his dad left them lying around all the time.  It didn’t taste very good at first but Stiles got used to it.  So long as he didn’t drink too much, he wouldn’t even get a headache the next day.

It’s okay, he supposes after lapping up the liquid.  Maybe it’s an acquired taste, like whiskey.  And there’s more than one type of tea, isn’t there?

Peter’s watching him over the rim of his own mug, looking faintly amused.  He scratches at the scruff on his face before offering, “We can go visit your parents first, then grab lunch, and then do the grocery shopping?”

Stiles nods in agreement.  Peter scratches his chin fondly before going back to his tea.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, they’re browsing the dairy aisle when Peter’s eyes flicker blue, and his nostrils flare like he’s picked up a scent.  Judging by his expression, it isn’t one he likes.

Crouched in the cart, Stiles tries to figure out what Peter’s detected.  He isn’t used to places like the supermarket where there are people and products all around him that give off their own scents, very little of it natural.

But when he concentrates, he manages to hone in on one particular scent, and only because… because something about it tickles at his memories, in a way that makes his ears flatten and a sense of growing apprehension knot in his belly.

A growl rumbles deep in Peter’s chest, only loud enough for Stiles to hear but no less threatening, and a second later, a man with a shopping cart swings around the corner, pulling up short when he catches sight of Peter staring icily at him with only half an aisle between them.

“Hale,” The man nods once, curt and barely civil.

“Argent,” Peter drawls back coldly, and every muscle in Stiles’ body freezes.  The only thing that stops him from attacking or bolting, each as likely as the other, is Peter’s hand on his back, not preventing him from running if that’s what he chooses to do but comforting enough to keep him in place at least for now.

The man – an Argent – starts pushing his cart again.  The closer he gets, the more unsettled Stiles feels, and when Argent reaches within feet of them, Stiles hisses with unrestrained antagonism.

Argent stops again, arching an eyebrow as he gives Stiles a cursory, condescending glance before looking at Peter again.  “I didn’t know your kind subscribed to pets.”

Peter’s lip curls with contempt.  “I daresay what you don’t know could fill encyclopaedias, Christopher, and that will either save you or damn you one day.  Let’s hope it’s the former or your darling little daughter might have to live the rest of her days parentless.”

Argent’s expression hardens to stone.  “You’ll stay away from my family, Hale.”

Peter sneers back with interest, eyes a glacial blue.  “Then yours should’ve stayed away from mine.”

And with that said, he shoves his cart in gear and stalks past the hunter.  Stiles spits at him on their way by.  Argent doesn’t look away from them until they’re out of sight.  If he knows what Peter was hinting at, he doesn’t show it.

Peter doesn’t stop until they’re standing next to the cake section.  Then he releases a short, sharp breath, head dipping to hide the glow of his eyes.

Stiles, still on high alert considering they’re still in the same store as an Argent, butts his head against Peter’s arm to get his attention.

Peter glances up and then sighs.  “I know, but worst case scenario, Christopher calls up his sister about this, which will only get Kate back to Beacon Hills that much faster.”

Stiles growls.  Peter smiles faintly and brushes a hand over Stiles’ head.  “Don’t worry, this isn’t a suicide run.  I won’t bite off more than I can chew.”

Stiles wishes he could pace, but the space he’s sitting in in the cart is too small.  He settles for resentfully digging his claws into the plastic cover under his feet.

Peter blinks at the methodical vandalism of public property for a moment before sighing again.  “That was the Argent son, and yes, I knew him from before.  My pack had run-ins with some Argents a few times; Christopher was one of them.”  He snorts.  “Ever the obedient dog even back then.”

Stiles just chuffs a disdainful sound before hopping out of the cart in one bound and heading for the nearest exit.

“There was never anything between us, if that’s what you’re mad about!”  Peter calls after him.  “I met him twice – the first time we didn’t even speak to each other, and the second time I threatened him after he waved a gun in Laura’s face while Gerard and my sister were busy posturing.”  A pause, and then, “Really, Stiles?  You’re going to leave me here with the groceries?”

Stiles sulks his way outside and sullenly sharpens his claws on a nearby tree.  He wants to kill something.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with himself these days.  The mere thought of Peter’s attention focused on someone else makes him- makes him-

Not jealous, no matter what Peter thinks.  …Scared, maybe, of losing Peter’s attention for good one day.  It’s Peter’s fault.  If that dumb werewolf just left him alone that day, just kept on going with his life instead of taking pity on Stiles and visiting him at the cemetery, Stiles wouldn’t have… he wouldn’t have gotten attached.

He has no one else, and that was fine before he realized he _could_ have someone, before he realized he _missed_ having someone, but now…

Argent’s still in there, Stiles suddenly remembers, turning back to the supermarket.  And he left Peter alone inside.

He races back in, slipping through the door when someone comes out.  He tracks Peter down at one of the checkout counters, paying for the groceries.  He ignores the raised eyebrows Peter gives him and firmly parks himself at the werewolf’s feet.

There.  And if that Argent appears and shows any sign of wanting to harm Peter, Stiles will claw his eyes out.

But they don’t see the hunter again.  They walk back to Peter’s apartment, Stiles sticking close as he keeps an eye out for danger.  It was one thing when Peter told him there are Argents in town; it’s apparently a whole other thing when Stiles actually sees one for himself.

He couldn’t save his mom all those years ago when Kate went after her.  He’ll be damned if he lets Peter go the same way.

“You don’t have to worry so much,” Peter murmurs as he puts away the groceries.

Stiles watches from the dining table and doesn’t answer, but when they go out again, he herds Peter around until the werewolf sighs in defeat and takes him by the street that the Argents live on.

“But you have to be careful,” Peter tells him sternly, kneeling in front of him once they’ve migrated to the woods in the Preserve so that they’re more or less at eye level.  “I can’t stop you from whatever it is you’re plotting-” He rolls his eyes when Stiles sniffs snootily.  “-but if they catch you and they find out you’re a shifter- hell, if they catch you and they realize you’re my ‘pet’, they’ll _kill you_.  You know that as well as I do, Stiles.  So you have to be careful.”

Stiles meows his agreement.  He knows, of course he knows, just how dangerous tangling with an Argent is.  He lost everything to that godforsaken family.  He won’t lose Peter too.

Later that night, when Peter is fast asleep, Stiles slips out through the window and makes his way to the Argent house.  He skirts a trap on the front lawn ( _Really??_ ) and settles on a tree branch outside, neatly hidden behind a crop of leaves.

He stays until dawn, until he sees movement in one of the upstairs window.  Curtains are pulled back, and he spots the Argent son and a woman, presumably the matriarch.  He doesn’t see their daughter but he imprints both their faces into his memory as they move around each other in the kitchen, his dislike for them already crystallizing.

( _How dare they get to fall in love and have a family and be happy when they make a living out of depriving other people of the exact same things?  How dare they get to live when all they do is rip other people’s lives apart and **enjoy** it?_ )

He leaves after watching the male Argent put out the garbage.  The man doesn’t notice Stiles, and Stiles envisions tearing his throat out and leaving him to bleed out on the lawn.

It’s a very satisfying image.

He leaves.  Peter is already awake when he makes it back.  The werewolf is walking around the apartment, tidying up the books on the coffee table, rifling through teabags in one of the kitchen cabinets, basically keeping his hands busy, and he doesn’t lose the restless energy until he sees Stiles ducking through the open window.

Relief flits across his features as he strides over and picks Stiles up, discreetly turning him this way and that like he’s checking for injuries.

Stiles sighs but purrs at the werewolf and rubs cheeks with him.  Peter growls.  “What did I _just say_ _yesterday?_ ”

Stiles huffs.  He _was_ careful!  Nobody even saw him.

Peter grumbles under his breath even as he lets Stiles onto his shoulders.  “I swear, Stiles, you get yourself shot and cut in half, and I will slaughter every Argent from here to France and damn the consequences.”

He makes it sound like one of those exaggerated complaints people are prone to, but there’s a streak of brutal honesty underscoring it that lets Stiles know Peter isn’t joking in the least.

Somehow, it makes Stiles feel safer.  Happy too, not that he’ll ever say.

He purrs louder and rasps his tongue over Peter’s jaw a few times.  Peter rolls his eyes with more than a little exasperation but he drops the scolding session.

“Breakfast?”  The werewolf grouses instead, heading for the kitchen.

Stiles meows his approval.

 

* * *

 

Kate Argent blows into town three days later, just after dawn.  Stiles has been staking out the Argent house every night since they bumped into Chris at the supermarket.  He doesn’t need as much sleep, and there are times during the day that Peter is busy so Stiles can take naps then, which means he’s wide awake and suppressing the instinct to leap and maul and _kill_ when a car pulls up outside the house, and a woman with long dark blonde hair and the stench of wolfsbane clinging to her clothes and skin steps out onto the curb.

Stiles grits his teeth and forces down the snarl welling up in his throat.  He has never wanted to attack another person more than he does in this moment.

Instead, he watches her sling a bag over her shoulder and pull a luggage case behind her as she strolls up the driveway like she owns it.  He hears the jingle of keys but the door opens before she can use one, and her brother appears.  They hug, and it’s- it’s sickening, to Stiles.  These _monsters_ have no right to have _family_ and _love_ and- and-

He takes a deep breath and holds it until the door shuts behind both of them.  Minutes later, there’s a squeal of delight from upstairs, from the girl’s – Allison’s – bedroom.

That’s when Stiles leaves.  Any longer and he’ll break inside himself in an attempt to kill them all, and then he’ll probably die in the process, and that will upset Peter.

Besides, the two of them have their revenge all planned out already, and that will hurt more than any physical blow Stiles can deal the Argents here.  Now it’s just finally time to see that vengeance through.

 

* * *

 

Peter packs a copy of the evidence file in each of the three boxes, one to be dropped off at the station, another sent to the FBI, and a third delivered to the Tribunal.  The former two of course have been edited to exclude any mention of the supernatural, but the third includes every little detail Peter’s been able to put together.

There’s a contained but frenzied air to each of Peter’s movements now, honed to a lethal point now that Kate is actually in town.

“You need to stay close to me from now on, alright Stiles?”  Peter mutters as he tapes the boxes shut with tape.  Stiles pokes at one roll.  He thought tape was see-through, not grey, but he supposes there would be different kinds, just like anything else.

“Stiles, are you listening to me?”  Peter demands, ducking down a little to catch Stiles’ eye.

Stiles _mrrow_ s a little irritably because he can take care of himself – has done it for six years with no problems – and he doesn’t need Peter hovering.

Peter sighs and rubs a hand down the scarred side of his face.  Some of it looks a bit faded, Stiles realizes upon closer inspection, no longer carved as deeply into the skin as they used to be, like they’re slowly healing.

“I just don’t want you to end up like me,” Peter finally explains.  His expression darkens.  “Or worse.”

Stiles looks at him for a long moment before darting forward and up onto the werewolf’s shoulders.  He leans his cheek against Peter’s and growls softly.  He’ll do his best, but no promises if Stiles _has_ to go somewhere to protect Peter.

Peter scratches behind Stiles’ ears and sighs once more, this time in resignation.  They don’t discuss the matter any further.  Once Peter finishes boxing everything up, they grab one – the one addressed to the Tribunal – and set out for the post office.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it isn’t that difficult to lure Kate out into the middle of the Preserve.  The woman is terribly predictable if nothing else.  She has a thirst for murder, and Peter is an unexpected loose end that she wants to tie up as soon as possible.

Neither of them knows whether it was the ‘animal attacks’ that drew Kate back to Beacon Hills or her brother asking questions after their run-in at the supermarket, but it ultimately doesn’t matter.  Giving Kate a few sightings of Peter while pretending not to notice the hunter stalking him, making regular trips to the Preserve to let her believe that Peter has a habit of spending every third night running around in the woods and sleeping in the burnt out shell of the old Hale house – it’s almost too easy.

In the meantime, Stiles makes sure to stay out of sight.  Peter isn’t at all comfortable with having Stiles out of his line of sight nowadays but so long as he stays close enough – whenever he can – for the werewolf to still hear his heartbeat, Peter can tolerate the distance.

So while Kate thinks she’s successfully tailing Peter, Stiles tails Kate in turn, slinking from shadow to shadow without a sound.  Werewolves may be built for super strength, but werecats are built for super stealth, and in Stiles’ opinion, sneaking around without being noticed is far better than being able to throw a bus or knock down buildings any day of the week.  Besides that, felines are naturally superior to canines.  And humans of course.  The only reason Kate caught Mom at all was because Mom was focused on making sure Stiles was securely hidden away, not to mention the screams of an entire family up ahead, house on fire and the smoke drifting out so far that it was choking even the forest, was enough to distract anyone, much less a shifter with heightened senses.  And the only reason Peter heard Stiles in that alley on that very first day they met was because Stiles was more _cat_ than _were_ at that point, and people don’t usually pay much attention to strays anyway unless it’s to chase them off, especially in such miserable weather.

So he follows Kate, and she’s none the wiser about it.  She has something – Peter guesses a talisman or rune of some sort – that hides her heartbeat and scent, so neither Stiles nor Peter can keep track of her that way, which means it’s Stiles’ job to know where she is at all hours.  Well, at almost all hours.  The first and only time he stayed out all day and all night before he took a break and headed back to Peter’s apartment, he got hungry in the middle of his stakeout and – with the woods too far out of his way to go hunting – he resorted to scrounging through another garbage can for food.  Peter somehow smelled it on him when he returned to the apartment, and the man got this horribly sad grimace on his face before he told Stiles in no uncertain terms that they didn’t need to keep tabs on Kate so much that Stiles couldn’t come home three times a day to eat.

Stiles didn’t really understand what the fuss was about.  He still doesn’t.  it isn’t like he constantly dives into garbage bins for food – he prefers hunting when it comes down to it – but it isn’t an entirely uncommon occurrence either.  When food is scarcer in the winter or the weather is bad in the summer, trashcans are the next best source of food.  Humans throw out food all the time, like they don’t know starvation or even a food shortage, and Stiles supposes they don’t if they can afford to dump half-eaten meals and leftovers all the time.

But Peter clearly didn’t like it when he realized what Stiles did for food that day, petted him and explained to him, “There’s plenty of food here.  If you’re hungry, you can just come home.  You’re not homeless anymore.”

He was _never_ homeless, thank you very much.  The willow tree, the hill in the cemetery, was his home.  But Peter looks insistent enough that Stiles relents without arguing very hard.  Peter makes fantastic food anyway so it isn’t exactly a hardship to let the werewolf feed him.

But aside from food breaks in-between, he camps outside the Argent house every night and follows Kate during the day when she goes out to do recon on Peter.  Peter leaves his apartment in the morning, looking tense and almost jittery to Stiles right up until he can hear Stiles’ heartbeat again, and then they’ll spend the rest of however long Kate is out and about pretending they don’t know what she’s doing.

It’s more tedious than anything else, although – at night or sometimes in the evening, either when most of the household is asleep or gone – there’s this boy who comes by whenever Allison is either home alone or the only one still awake, and he keeps climbing the tree in the front yard before crawling through the girl’s bedroom window.  He really sucks at it too; it’s a miracle he hasn't fallen and broken his neck yet, with how clumsy he is, and the _racket_ he makes is _offensive_ to Stiles.  As a cat, he is officially offended.  A couple times, the parents and the aunt have woken up in the middle of the night, suspicious of the noises, but the boy apparently hasn’t been caught yet, and then the adults go back to sleep, and Stiles has to suffer through the mating noises coming from the girl’s room.

The first time he saw the boy sneaking in, Stiles almost started caterwauling a ruckus out front.  He doesn’t give a rat’s tail about any of these people – they can all die in a fire for all he cares, most of them _deserve_ it, and it would be karmic justice – but even he’s uncomfortable with the idea of the young female kitten getting raped by some random creeper.

But he hears her giggle and whisper welcome, opening the window for the boy to trip his way through, and Stiles realizes that the two teenagers are involved with each other, and these nighttime rendezvous are supposed to be romantic and fun.  Or something.

Humans are _so_ weird.

It’s still somewhat disgusting to hear them mate.  Have sex.  Copulate.  They’re quiet enough to not wake the humans in the house, but Stiles can hear _everything_.  After the second time it happens, he scoots a few houses down until he’s far enough that he can just block the noises out from where he’s settled in a different tree.  He can still see the house itself so he always knows if Kate is giving up sleep for the night in favour of shadowing Peter.

Peter looks torn between amusement, sympathy, and revulsion when Stiles complains to him about it.

Two weeks later, Kate finally makes her move.  Shortly after midnight, on one of the nights Peter is supposed to go to the Preserve, she stocks her car full of weapons and drives off.

Stiles has already run ahead to warn Peter.  He knows preparation when he sees it.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, Peter runs Kate to ground on the dilapidated ruins of the Hale house, deep in the Preserve.  Her screams go unheard as Peter’s jaws clamp shut around her torso and _tear_ , blood spurts and pools, dark red and spreading under her.

Peter’s eyes are wild and burning blue, fangs painted crimson and glinting in his mouth, more wolf than man as his claws sink that much deeper into the woman who massacred his family.

Stiles lets Peter have this.  Kate killed his mom but Peter has the bigger claim on her death, worked harder on reaping justice for his family than Stiles has ever done for his own.  The werewolf deserves this moment more, and Stiles is content with knowing that Kate will be dead before dawn.

On the other hand, Peter isn’t paying attention to anything other than the prey in his grasp, his vengeance on a killer who destroyed his life, so it’s a good thing Stiles is keeping watch from the branch of a tree even now, protecting Peter’s back, and he’s the one who senses the newcomer rushing towards them, wolfsbane and gun oil and _threat_.

Chris Argent bursts onto the scene, smart enough not to shout and attract attention even when he sees Peter’s hulking form mauling his sister.  Instead, he levels his shotgun at the werewolf, aiming for a perfect headshot, but he doesn’t even have time to twitch a finger before Stiles comes lunging out of the darkness, snarling in rage as he barrels into the Argent’s head and tears into flesh, into muscle, into anything he can reach.

Argent reels back and drops his gun, yelling something incoherent, interspersed with swear words that Stiles barely hears.  Instead, he focuses all his fury, all his hatred, all his pain and grief and loss, into every bite and gouge and laceration he can possibly inflict on the man.  He tastes blood on his tongue, at the back of his throat, and still he doesn’t stop, not until a rough hand grabs him by the scruff of his neck, rips him off, and flings him through the air.

He slams into the trunk of a tree with a muted thud before falling to the ground, disoriented, ears ringing, but even then, there’s no mistaking the earthshaking roar of pure unadulterated wrath that shatters the night and drowns everything else out with its rumbling volume.

Dizzily, Stiles struggles upright in time to see a black blur throw Argent to the ground, and one gigantic paw pins him in place, hard enough to crack the ribcage even as Peter looms above the man, muzzle glistening with gore, wholly shifted now as he readies himself for the deathblow.

Stiles staggers forward, wincing at the throbbing pain in his right foreleg.  Broken, he suspects, but it’s already healing so he ignores it and presses on.

He limps towards Peter, all but tumbling into the wolf’s flanks to get his attention, yowling loudly when it seems as if Peter’s about to bring his claws down to finish Argent off.

Stiles wouldn’t care at all if Argent was to die here.  But that’s not part of the plan, Christopher Argent wasn’t part of the arson conspiracy, and so, now that he’s no longer a danger to them, they shouldn’t kill him.  Yet.  It’s another matter entirely if the Tribunal or even the police manage to dig something up on him and his wife.

Peter stays motionless for a long, breathless minute.  Then he lowers his paw and steps off of Argent, who’s gasping hard and fast.  The hunter’s face is a bloody mess, and it’s sheer luck Stiles didn’t take one or both of his eyes during the assault.

With a seamless shift of muscle and bone, Peter is on two legs again, naked, chest heaving, fingers twitching with the urge to kill.  But he pulls it back and turns to Stiles instead, dropping to his knees and running gentle hands over Stiles’ body to make sure he isn’t too hurt.  His features twist with murder when he gets to the broken leg, but he leaves that alone to heal and fusses over Stiles’ head instead.

“Why?”  Argent interrupts in croaky tones, hacking up a few blood-flecked coughs.  Liquid pools in the hollow of his throat and drenches the collar of his coat.  “This is grounds for your execution, Hale.  Every- Every hunter from here to-”

“‘ _Why?_ ’”  Peter echoes in a cold, mocking voice.  “‘Why?’  You’re _looking_ at the _why_ , Argent.”

Wind howls through the otherwise empty Preserve like the groan of restless ghosts, the final resting place of a home once filled with laughter and children and _life_.

Peter sneers.  “Don’t tell me you didn’t suspect _something_ , Christopher; you aren’t that stupid.”

He rises to his feet, cradling Stiles in his arms as he stares balefully down at the hunter still sprawled on the ground.  A few feet away, Kate’s broken corpse is strewn across the charred front steps of the Hale house.

In a thick bush nearby, Peter stoops to grab the folder stashed underneath.  He tosses it carelessly beside Argent, who doesn’t flinch but tenses up like he wants to.

It’s the bulk of their case, all the accusations and evidence lined up against the Argent empire, waiting to be exposed to the world.  The Tribunal has already been investigating on the sly, another file will be sent off to the FBI in the morning, and one more will be dropped off at the police station after this.  The Argents won’t have any time to cover any of it up.

“I swear on my family’s graves,” Peter says quietly, and there isn’t a speck of anger anywhere to be found this time, just cold, clinical promise.  “If I find out you or Victoria had anything to do with the fire, if I find out either of you even _suspected_ what your psychopath of a sister was planning to do to my pack and kept silent about it, I will come for you, I will come for your wife, and I will come for your precious daughter, and I will show as much mercy to you and yours as Kate did to mine.”

He straightens.  Arranges Stiles a little more securely in his arms.  Then he turns and walks away.  Behind them, Argent doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, at least not until both Stiles and Peter are out of sight and earshot.

A cache of clothes and another file waits for Peter in a tree down the road leading back to town.  The werewolf gets dressed, and then they swing by the station to drop off the file.

Then they go home.

Stiles lets Peter wipe him down with a wet cloth.  Black lines trail up his arm, and the aches in Stiles’ body disappears.  Then the werewolf grabs his own shower, and then they go to bed.  Stiles curls up on top of the covers, right next to Peter, and he lets the man drape an arm over him.

It is done, and somehow, it feels as if a weight has been lifted.

They fall asleep listening to the steady thump of each other’s heartbeats.

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


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